Page 33 of Corrupting Camille
She’s going to drown in it.
Camille
It’s too much.
The stretch. The pressure. The way his cock splits me wide, forces me open, claims every inch of space like it was molded to ruin me.
And somehow, it’s perfect.
I can’t breathe through the burn, can’t think through the fullness. My spine bows, knees digging into the mattress as I lock my legs around his waist, like if I let go he’ll disappear, and I’ll fall apart in the worst way.
His hand clamps down on my jaw, fingers biting into my cheeks, tilting my face until I have no choice but to look at him.
And God…the look in his eyes
Not lust.
Not even just possession.
It’s something worse.
Something deeper.
Like he sees every dirty thought I’ve never admitted, every secret I’ve buried under polished smiles and designer dresses. And he likes it. Wants it. Wants me…not the Camille they built, but the one I’ve spent my whole life trying to kill.
“Camille.”
My name is a threat on his tongue. Like sweet torture.
He pulls out…slow, devastating inches that make my body seize, and slams back in with a force that knocks my breath straight out of me.
“Take every fucking inch,” he growls.
The bed groans beneath us. My body does too, loud and frantic and filthy as I arch up into him, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. I clench around him, a reflex I can’t control, desperate to hold onto something that’s destroying me from the inside out.
And then I snap.
My body convulses, mouth opening on a sob I can’t swallow fast enough. I come hard…shattering, clenching, breaking apart in his arms like I was meant to be undone by him. Like I was built for this moment, for him.
The moans spill out of me raw and broken and embarrassingly loud, until his hand covers my mouth.
Not sweetly.
Not to soothe me.
He grabs my face, palm over lips, holding me there like he needs to feel my ruin, like he wants every breath to belong to him.
But it’s not enough.
It never is.
He thrusts again, harder, deeper, and my whole body jerks, helpless beneath the weight of him. My hips are pinned. My thoughts are gone. I’m nothing but sensation and sound and the terrifying ache of wanting more.
My head thrashes against the pillows as pleasure crests again, fast and brutal, until his fingers fist in my hair and yank. My back arches, a sharp gasp caught in my throat as he drags me up, forces my eyes to his again.
“Look at me,” he snaps, low and vicious. “You don’t look away until you’re fucking done.”
I don’t know if I’ll ever be done.
